


Waves Against The Rocks

by LeoKitty



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Azkaban, Death Eaters, Gen, Insanity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-04-26
Packaged: 2018-06-04 15:21:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,302
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6663976
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeoKitty/pseuds/LeoKitty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He thought he'd finally escaped. But no, there was never an escape. Not from Azkaban, and not from the Dark Lord.</p><p>TGS  - WINNER of "Best Post-WW" writer's duel<br/>HPFF - WINNER of BLONDEbehaviour's "The Death Eater Challenge"</p><p>Originally posted on HPFF under penname "Leonore"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Waves Against The Rocks

You may push them back time and again, but the waves always return. Wearing down anything which stands in their way, slow but unstoppable, until nothing remains.

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

Fingers stiff, frozen. Cold wind biting through every layer of clothing. Far below, the waves. Nothing but a broom to save him from a watery grave. Cold, grey ocean. Memories flooded back. He remembered where he was - the North Sea! Feeling faint. In desperation, turning the broom around. There was nothing for him but danger, but it was better than going near _there._ Better than _them._  
  
The broom was fast but not built for comfort. The best racing broom around, the Firebolt. There were many advantages to being the teacher of an international Quidditch player. But he was not used to flying. In the summer, the students flew every day. Some of the teachers, too. He had, before- before he went _there._ He'd been strong, an athlete. He'd come out broken.  
  
His thoughts were sluggish. Vaguely he was aware that he was drifting downwards. With an effort, he tugged the broom up. It climbed briefly before dipping again. The sea was close now, murky grey. No light to make the waves glitter, like the lake back home. Silence pressed around him, in the distance the rippling of water. His head felt light, dizzy. Was this what it was like to die?  
  
He didn't want to die. He had survived so much - to drown now... He hadn't really done anything wrong, only kept himself alive. Fine, he'd made a mistake. Let his fear overcome his judgement. But- the Dark Lord had been _dead._ And being with _them_ \- of course he couldn't think properly. He'd always been loyal, should have earned a second chance. It was a _mistake_! In the circumstances...  
  
But the Dark Lord offered no second chances. To answer the call would only have earned him pain, until he begged for mercy. The Dark Lord did not give mercy. He did not care for their reasons, only actions. It was so unfair - what would anyone else have done in the situation? No, the only mercy the Dark Lord would give was death, and that only after he was broken.  
  
He didn't want to die. He'd survived so much - escaped _them_ , although they still haunted him. He'd done his best with the students - yes, most were idiots, but he'd been a good headmaster, hadn't he? Dolohov - they had worked together often enough. Been friends, almost. But Dolohov would say nothing on his behalf. He was alone, the world against him. He should have been part of a conquering army. But no, the Dark Lord had left them alone.  
  
If the Dark Lord had stayed, he would never have been in that situation. He'd never have been captured, never have gone _there._ He wouldn't have needed to take such measures to escape. Anyone would have done it, in his situation. Anything to get away from _there_ , away from those- _things._  
  
At the back of his mind, he registered something. Waves, crashing. He huddled down, wrapping his arms over his head and whimpering. Waves. The only sound to be heard, those nights, except for the endless wailing of other occupants. Well, until they fell silent, and then there was only the waves.  
  
His toes seemed to catch on something. As he tipped and his arms came from his head, he saw the water right below. His feet had brushed the surface. And he was falling into it, no control over the broom. In front, a black wall. Cliff. Land. What was safer, land or sea? Both brought death, but the sea would be easier.  
  
He saw the broom carry on, strike the cliff, break and the pieces fall to the water. Debris, floating , riding the shifting surface of the waves. In and out of the spray. It was a fine broom, and his only means of escape. But there was no escape. No escape left.  
  
He put his arms out to protect himself, felt his body slam into the rock. Pulled himself along, somehow. The sound changed and he found himself crawling up onto the beach. Dragging himself up that tiny spit of stones, barely aware of the uncomfortable stones underneath him. Getting far enough away from the sea, with its terrible secret. Away from the memories, from _them_. Sodden clothing dripped, heavy, holding him down. He didn't have the strength for this, would just die where he lay. _It would be easier this way._  
  
*  
  
_Cold. Cold, and misery. He hadn't been happy for a long time, but this was different. Despair. In the distance, the crash of waves striking the cliffs. Far below. The murmuring of the man in the cell next to his. Not words, not any more. Names, almost? He didn't care, tried not to listen. Barely heard it. He murmured himself, the same words over and over again._  
  
_"Help me. I've done nothing wrong. Lord, come back. Come back. Not my fault. Following orders. Only muggles. Help me. Loyal servant. Following orders. Come back. Help me. Only muggles. Not my fault. Lord, come back. Help me."_  
  
_Then it wasn't words any more, but he didn't really notice. Lips forming sounds, but he didn't hear the sounds. Or if he did, they didn't seem to come from him. He was innocent. He'd followed orders. That was all. They were only muggles, anyway, most of them. Why did they matter so much? And the others - he wasn't responsible. The Dark Lord gave the order. He was only the weapon._  
  
_He felt the cold, the hopelessness, cowered back in his cell. Deathly silence, except for the waves. Pulled his arms over his head, cowering back. A memory of pain, high cold laugh. "Beg for mercy." There was never mercy. He begged all the same. He couldn't remember his crime, but it hadn't been worthy of this._  
  
_"Thank you, my lord. Thank you." Kiss the robes of his torturer. Thank him for his life. Because it could have been worse, they had to remember._  
  
_" If you are still alive, he has been merciful." A warning, when he first took the Mark. Be grateful for everything._  
  
_The despair faded, just a little. The memory of the punishment lingered a little longer - these things could not be forgotten. The murmuring began again. Meaningless sounds, but they said enough. There was no way out - no rope, every surface was smooth. They had to eat, and drink, willing or not. It was unfair, that there was no way out. Alive or dead - what did it matter to them? Cruelty, beyond anything he had done to anyone else._  
  
_The Cruciatus Curse - he could not compare it. One mental, one physical, both would break a man but the Curse was quicker. Here, it could take years. The Curse took only a minute. A minute of absolute pain, but then it was over. And now - the years stretched ahead of him. Time. Why measure it? There would be no change, nothing to wait for, nothing to look forward to. Just this slow fall. And the despair._  
  
_No, the only thing he had ahead of him was death. He did not want to die. He hadn't earned this - his actions had not been his choices but the will of the Dark Lord. And besides, they were only muggles. And he had been betrayed, betrayed by the master he had served for those long years. He had risked everything, and he had been betrayed. A traitor did not deserve his loyalty. He was dead, anyway. Igor would have to look after himself._  
  
*  
  
The Dark Lord was dead! But now, somehow, he had returned! This was unfair. He'd been left alone with no-one but himself to save him, and he had taken the only option available. Now the master who he had served faithfully and who had betrayed him had returned from the dead. And he would not listen to excuses, not accept that it was his fault.  
  
Igor struggled to sit up. A brief panic, but his wand was still there. The warming spell took four attempts. He hadn't realised just how cold he was. It was hard to keep the spell down, but he knew from experience that to warm himself too quickly would be painful and dangerous. A drying spell made a difference, and his joints began to unstiffen. He flexed his hands slowly, wincing at the rush of blood.  
  
The pain of the Mark flooded back - the cold had numbed him so he hadn't been able to feel it. It burned, still, and he could feel the Dark Lord's anger and distain. And with this Mark, he could be found. Of course he would be found. No-one could escape the Dark Lord. But this way he might have a few more hours that if he apparated straight into the curse.  
  
What if he were to go now, kneel and beg for mercy? Explain why he had done those things, why he had been late to answer the call. But there was no mercy. The Dark Lord was not merciful. _If you are still alive, he has been merciful._ If Igor survived the encounter, his gratitude would be real. But he would not. His error had been too serious.  
  
The sea. Waves lapping against the shore, just below him. Further along, crashing against the rocks. That sound, too familiar. He had to get away, away from that sound...  
  
Body shaking, wand stuffed into his robes so he didn't break it. He was used to cold, but not resistant. Slowly, he stumbled up the rest of the beach. Heather, and a narrow stream. He didn't worry about finding an easy path, just struggled straight up the slope. North. The Dark Lord was in the south, down in England.  
  
While distance made no difference, he would move away. The stream gave him water, and he killed a rabbit with the Killing Curse. Didn't bother to cook it, but ate it raw - what did it matter? The texture was horrible, slimy. Dripping blood. Stray furs catching between his teeth. But it filled his stomach, at least for the minutes until he retched it up. Stomach empty again, he continued regardless.  
  
A pair of muggles, out walking, stared when they saw him. It was almost like old times, except his kills had never been so clean. But he could not take the time to enjoy it. What was the point anyway? He could not take pride in it, not use the bodies as an example. He left them where they fell - it was remote enough that they would not be found immediately. A terrible accident. He would have placed the Mark over it, once, but he would no longer give the credit to his traitor lord.  
  
Night fell, and he continued until he fell with exhaustion and could not rise. Nothing but heather, all around. A soft mattress, at least. This time he cast protective spells, although they would be no defence if he was found. He was hungry, but it was not enough to keep him awake.  
  
*  
  
_They took him from the place, although there was always one of the things close by. Back to the ministry, away from the waves. Except he could still hear the waves in his head when the tattered black cloak was close by. The laughter, his own voice begging, begging to a lord who cared nothing for his servants. A lord who had betrayed him._  
  
_Names. He had few. But he gave them, one by one, and one by one they were rendered worthless. Even Dolohov, his partner in so many assignments. Only one was useful - well, two, but Dumbledore was too blind to accept his information. Of course Severus was one of them. He told them everything he had, every name. While they looked down on him with scorn. As though they were better than him._  
  
_Just because they hid away from danger, did not fight for their beliefs. They should be kneeling to his master, but his master had abandoned them. They were no better - they killed, and tortured, and their methods were as cruel as those of the Dark Lord. But the Dark Lord was honest, while they lied. The Dark Lord was fair, if harsh. Rewarded service, punished when appropriate. These people had too many rules._  
  
_And that Auror, Mad-Eye. He was the one responsible, beside the Dark Lord. He claimed to fight for good, but he was as ruthless as any dark wizard. Perhaps worse, because he would not confess to what he was. He destroyed any who stood in his way, killing them or sending them to that place of torture to rot. He was there now, watching, taking pleasure from the sight of fear and suffering._  
  
_They sent him back. Back to the waves, and the murmuring, and the despair. He had told them everything, kept his side of the bargain, but they had betrayed him. Again. He decided then that he could place his trust in no-one else. Only he could help himself._  
  
_Then they released him. A rare moment of honour. He walked free, out of this country which had hurt him for so long and back to his homeland. Away from traitors and torturers, free at last. This innocent land, more fair. Away from power-struggles and absolutes, to do what he felt needed doing instead of another's orders._  
  
_To teach the new generation the traditions, to ensure that they were not blinded by the authorities' messages of love and equality. But also to make sure that they did not make the same mistakes as him. Trust no-one else. Do not risk what you cannot stand to lose. Keep in mind what is at stake. And do not rely on the Ministry to do what is right. There is no good or evil, only a hunger for power._  
  
_He ensured that his students could defend themselves. That they would not be helpless when they were betrayed. To ensure that they were the ones in control. As he should have been, if he had known the true nature of the world earlier. He built himself a life, away from all of the corruption, looking after himself and trusting his life to no-one else. He took pride in his students, fine young men and women with traditional values. No nonsense about equality with muggles._  
  
_Viktor Krum. He let no-one stand in his way. Hard work and determination. He did not listen to those who told him he was too young. He fought for what he wanted, controlled his own life, brushed aside the lies. Igor had been like him, strong and athletic. But he had allowed himself to be guided, and had lost it all. He taught Viktor to be strong on his own, not to care for the opinions of others. His greatest success._  
  
*  
  
He wondered what had happened to Viktor, and to the others. Hoped that he had trained them well enough that they would not get involved. Just go home, away from these games in which they would be only pawns. In which they could lose it all, could gain nothing.  
  
This time he cooked the rabbit. The warm meat was comforting, satisfying in his stomach. He walked again, north. Towards open air, mountains, and freedom. He would never be truly free - he had sacrificed that long ago - but he could do as he liked for however long he had left.  
  
But north lay ocean. This was an island - no escape from the sea. At first the sound could have been within his head, but it grew. Waves striking against rocks. He sank to the ground, hands over his ears. He had allowed the hope to grow, but there was no hope. How long did he have left? The Dark Lord could find him easily enough, but did not care. That would not last. Perhaps this was just intended to torture him - to drive him slowly mad with waiting.  
  
But no, the Dark Lord would not do that. It was not his style. Punishment would be painful but short. So why was he waiting? The Mark would guide him here.  He crawled back, south, away from the waves. Trying to escape the memories. He would never escape, but he would never stop trying. Only he could help himself.  
  
There was a shack, home to a strange old muggle. No-one would notice. Igor was too weary to enjoy it - it didn't matter any more. He'd left the other bodies, but he transfigured this one into a stick and flung it out across the heather. It would be unhealthy to leave it when he would be staying here.  
  
He explored the shack. Shelter enough. A hunting knife hung in the corner, and he took it down. Drew up his sleeve and stared at the Mark. Angry and black, as always, burning with anger and contempt. A beacon, calling to the master who had betrayed him. Disfiguring his body, a foreign invader. Alien, unwanted.  
  
He set the knife just below his elbow. There was only one way to be rid of this thing. Blood welled, pain burned. He had known worse. But he couldn't do this to himself. Too slow. He would bleed to death. And he had always had pride in his body. Small scars, but the brand was the only real blemish.  
  
He healed the cut with his wand. Vanished the blood, and conjured a goblet to drink from. He saw his reflection in the mirror, with disgust. A simple spell tidied his beard. If he was going to die, he would be proud to the end. He didn't want to die, but there was no escape. He'd lost his independence when he was too young to understand. It had seemed glamorous then, but no longer.  
  
The Ministry would not - could not - protect him. He would not turn to them anyway. Too many lies, too much betrayal. He would not entrust his life to anyone else. They had hurt him, tortured him, and yet they claimed to be good. Tortured him, although it was not his fault. Far out of proportion. He had obeyed his master, and they were only muggles. He had not had a choice. They'd had a choice, and they had chosen to hurt him.  
  
And the Dark Lord did not forgive. He was not merciful. He had seemed it, at first, offering them a chance to be part of the great revolution. He had not lied, like the Ministry. They had known full well that he was master and he alone. They meant nothing to him unless they were useful to him, so they did their best to serve. But back then, it had seemed glamorous. Fighting for freedom, serving the Heir of Slytherin.  
  
*  
  
_He held out his left hand, and white fingers encircled his wrist. Unyielding. His sleeve was pushed up to his elbow, exposing his forearm. He looked one last time at the smooth skin, as the wand tip dug into flesh and from it flowed a mark of black. A skull, from its mouth a twisting snake. Familiar from the night sky._  
  
_The brand burned, but he could not pull away. The grip on his wrist was too tight. The Mark formed and settled, fading quickly to angry red. It still burned, with residual heat and not with the searing pain of the branding iron. He held himself still, and his arm was released. Dropped to his knees, kissed the hem of his master's cloak._  
  
_"Thank you, my lord." He meant it. To earn the Mark was a privilege he had long dreamed of. To be one of the Dark Lord's inner circle. No reply, the Dark Lord moving on silently to the next in the line. He rose and stood in silence, but received no more attention. He was greeted by those Death Eaters present, but they spoke little. Few were there - the Dark Lord alone knew every one of his followers. Severus, Dolohov, Rookwood-_  
  
_He never received orders directly from the Dark Lord. The only contact was when he failed in some way and was punished. But still, the Dark Lord would protect him. He had earned that protection. He would be punished for requiring it, but he would still be protected._  
  
*  
  
But no. The Dark Lord had left him. He had earned the protection, but it had not been given. He had been betrayed. The Dark Lord had not even been dead, but he had left Igor to fend for himself. To save himself the only way he could, and now that would cost him his life.  
  
He had been proud of the Mark, but no longer. "Diffindo." A scream escaped him as the pain struck. It filled him, and he couldn't think. But the blood was rushing out and he could feel the life leaving him. No. He had survived too much. Almost subconsciously, he began to cast the long string of spells to seal the wound. At last the blood stopped flowing, and the desperation that had kept him conscious subsided.  
  
When he woke, the blood had dried. Beside him lay an arm. His arm. Stiff, dead. The Mark still black on it. He vanished it, and the blood, inspecting the stump. He tidied up his repairs, growing the skin over to seal it properly. He couldn't regrow the arm, and he didn't want to in case the Mark appeared on it.  
  
It still hurt, but the pain focussed him. He had survived worse. Food and water, first, and slowly he regained his strength. The blood loss had weakened him, but he would survive. He had survived so much already, he could manage this too.  
  
And he was free. His body was all his own. Permanently maimed, perhaps, but his. He might regret it later, but he would be dead. Even without the Mark to track him, the Dark Lord would find him. And put an end to all of this. He laughed, although the sound was a rasp. _If you are still alive, he has been merciful._ No, death would be the mercy.  
  
But weeks passed and he was still alive. Still waiting. Should he speed this up? But he couldn't, couldn't end his life while there was still hope. Perhaps someone would manage to put an end to the Dark Lord before he got here. It could already have happened, and without the Mark to tell him he wouldn't know.  
  
But to check would be too dangerous. Besides, there was nothing left for him. So he waited. Waited for the end, whatever form it might take. He enjoyed life, just being here. Out in the open, surrounded by the heather and the sky. Alone. No-one to look, no-one to judge. Not the pawn in some game he did not understand. Sitting, looking, thinking his own thoughts. Free.  
  
Free only in the day. At night, the darkness closed in and memories returned. Waves against the rocks, the sound ever-present. The cold despair of that _place_. The pain of the curse. High, cold laughter. And the laughter was real.  
  
He'd allowed the hope to grow, allowed himself to enjoy his life out her. Now he stood slowly, waiting. The door swung open softly, and the figure entered. Black robes, white skin, blood red eyes. "You know you cannot hide, Igor. Treachery will not be forgotten."  
  
"You were the traitor, first. You betrayed me when you left me with no-one but myself. I risked everything, sank too far, risked it on you. And you lost it. I made a mistake, and that was risking too much on someone else's games." He could say it - it would make no difference, and he had been preparing these words for many years.  
  
The laugh, again. And waves against the rocks. He knew what would come now. But he could escape. He turned his wand, pointed it at himself. "Avada Kedavra" The green light stuck him, but he felt nothing. He was still alive.  
  
"Weak, Igor. As you always were. You do not want to die." An unforgiveable - you had to mean it. Fear, and logical reasoning, were not enough. His wand flew from his hand before he could use another spell, one without the same condition. "Will you not beg for mercy?" A taunt.  
  
"The only mercy is death, and no doubt you will grant it in the end." The laugh pierced through him.  
  
"You are stronger than I thought. To cast off my Mark. But you will always be marked, even if you remove it physically. Now will you beg for mercy? For me to speed the end?"  
  
"My life is my own - I rely on no-one else. Not any more. I have been betrayed too many times."  
  
The laugh, one more time, before the pain struck. And while some memories grew worse with time, the pain of the Cruciatus curse could not be remembered. He screamed, again and again, as the Dark Lord laughed. His mind began to slip, but then the pain ceased. Just a brief respite, allowing him to recover so the Dark Lord could begin again.  
  
"Please- master. My lord- please." He had known too much pain already. He had no control over his own life, except perhaps this. "Please - kill me." He did not have the strength to kneel - he could only beg. And the Dark Lord laughed, before the curse struck again.  
  
Too much pain. And he realised he did have a choice - he let go. His body still lived, just about, but he allowed the sea to flood in. Waves against the rocks, not soft but all-consuming, washing him away. Perhaps the waves were not so bad after all - they were not the pain, but the escape. 


End file.
